Who Am I?
by stress
Summary: COMPLETE. When a bump to his head leaves David confused, it's up to Jack to help him get his memory back.  Because David has no idea who he is –- though his newfound personality does seem a bit familiar... Ah, poor Jack.  He has no idea what he's in for.
1. a falling icicle

******Disclaimer**: The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes.

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**Who Am I?**

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Jack Kelly hated winter.

He hated the cold, he hated the snow, he hated the ice. He hated the way his hands froze, turning red and raw and stiff; papes were hard enough to turn without a numb finger or two tripping him up. He hated the way the wind whipped through his thin trousers, and how the wet, slushy mess on the ground soaked through his boots for days at a time, leaving them damp and smelly and squishy though the tiny holes in his socks.

Most of all he hated how the colder it got outside, the less newspapers he sold. The less newspapers he sold, the less money he made. The less money he made, the less food he got to eat—and without any food, he was even colder than he would've been with a good, hot meal filling up his belly.

But, just because he hated winter, that didn't mean that he was going to be caught hiding out in the crowded lodging house, fighting for a bit of warmth when all of New York was his oyster. Well, the oyster was iced shut and he wouldn't even be able to use his finger to pry the damn shell open if he could, but still. It was his oyster all the same.

Which was exactly why he was standing outside, trying to light up his smoke in the icy evening wind—trying and not particularly succeeding. It was like using fingers three times their regular size to do the simplest of tasks, something he'd done a million times already. Even the matches wouldn't cooperate: half of them spilled to the grey slush covering the cobbles while the other half were left trapped in the matchbox Jack quickly slammed shut and jammed back in his pockets.

Then, alternating between blowing on his hands and rubbing them together for warmth, he cursed out loud: "Goddamn it! It's colder than a witch's tit out here!"

"And how cold is a witch's… you know… exactly, Jack?"

David Jacobs, suddenly red in the face though that could've been from the cold, was certainly acting crosser than usual—if his knack to always ask questions back was right on the money. He was cold and he was hungry, dreaming of the hot bowl of soup his mother surely had waiting for him back at the apartment, but he wasn't going to be the first one to suggest going in for the night.

Not after the last time, that was.

Last time… when the harsh winter first blew in at the beginning of January, 1900, David's mother refused to let him out of the apartment unless he was wearing his scarf and a pair of knitted mittens—they were sky blue—she'd made just for him. But Racetrack Higgins had laughed himself silly and Jack had almost swallowed his cigarette and David realized that barely any of the newsies had a coat let alone a scarf and mittens to go along with it. They didn't have a mother, either, which probably explained why they didn't quite understand her fussing.

It had been almost a month since then, and he was still being teased mercifully but not for a lack of trying on his part. The very next day, David had hid his scarf and threw away his mittens—his mother was still looking for them, though she already started knitting another pair—and he refused to be the first one to succumb to any of the cold winter weather even if it meant he got_ frostbite_ on all ten fingers first.

Which, of course, meant that on days like these, when it felt like it was ten below and Jack was too stubborn to follow David home for a hot meal, David was stuck trying to pretend he couldn't feel the cold—because Jack was stubborn enough to pretend he couldn't, either—and praying this would be Jack's last cigarette.

And it might be… if he ever got the thing lit.

Jack kept his cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth, still rubbing his hands together, still trying to get feeling in his fingers before he tried taking out his matches again. He gave David a sideways look. "I don't know, Davey, it's just something people say when it's cold out. Don't be such a crab… unless… unless you're feelin' the cold tonight, too." There was a mischievous quirk to Jack's lips; miraculously, he was still able to hold onto the cigarette _and_ tease David at the same time. What a skill! "I won't mind if ya want to run on home and get your scarf and your mittens if it's botherin' ya too much."

"I'm fine," David said, gritting his teeth to show how annoyed he was—not, mind you, because his teeth would be chattering if he wasn't, alright? "It's just a little brisk, that's all. I could stay out all night."

Now, Jack knew very well from Sarah that their parents started to grow worried if David or Les stayed out once the sun went down. With winter upon them, and the sun disappearing earlier and earlier, David's father was a little more lenient, but Jack was willing to bet real money that Esther Jacobs would have half of the neighborhood precinct out looking for her son if he tried to stay out past ten, let alone all night.

Besides, he added with a stifled chortle, David had lessons at school tomorrow morning.

Which was why they were staying out as late as it already was. With David and his little brother Les taking lessons all morning, Jack didn't have access to his selling partners until the evening edition—and Les's cute, little mug always earned him double the money. Just not that afternoon, though. Les had run off to have a snowball fight with Boots and Tumbler when that evening's selling was a lost cause due to the chill in the air and only Jack and David remained to stand underneath the tiniest red and white—or pink and grey, considering how old it was—awning Mulberry Street could supply.

At least, _Jack_ was standing under the fabric awning. David, antsy and cold and surreptitiously marching in place in order to get the feeling back in his toes, had moved out from under the awning. He was still protected if it started to snow again; the overhang to some small shop that had already closed for the evening was perfectly positioned right overhead.

Perfectly position to do other things, too, if fate and a skewed sense of humor had anything to do with it.

It started out simple and innocent enough. There was a horse and carriage ambling down the street, the driver bundled up against the wind, the steam from the horse's breath rising up in the night's sky. It was hardly past seven but it was dark out, the gas lamps already lit, the weak flame doing precious little other than reflect off of yesterday's dingy snowfall.

It certainly didn't shed any light on the patch of ice right in front of the horse…

Jack was just attempting to pick another match out of his matchbox when it happened. The horse, oblivious to the danger underfoot—hoof—slid on the ice, one of his front legs buckling as the other shot out in front of him. The sudden split spooked the creature who managed to regain his footing—_hoofing_—and reared back, nearly tilting the carriage on its rear. The driver, in the middle of taking a little sip to ward of the cold, dropped his flask, managing to get control of the reins just in time for his timid little carthorse to go tearing off down Mulberry Street.

Jack and David watched in unbridled interest as all this happened in the matter of mere seconds. It was the most exciting thing to have happened since they gave up on selling and, for the moment at least, it took their minds off the cold. Until—

The horse rampaging by did nothing to the boys, exactly. Their backs were closer to the wall than the narrow lane the horse was racing down so there was no threat of their being stampeded by a spooked horse. But the rhythm of hoofbeats pounding by sent vibrations through the cobblestones, up the brick wall that was currently sheltering Jack and David until—

Jack was still standing beneath the faded, snow-covered awning when the horse ran by so nothing happened to him. But David… he'd froze right underneath a solid overhang, watching in amazement as the tame horse went wild and started to sprint, the driver's frightened screams echoing behind him. The yells added to the thunder, the vibrations racing up the wall until they hit the overhang—the overhang, and the hundreds of mis-shapened icicles that hung like pointed teeth from its edge.

One particularly—and quite _luckily—_semi-short, not-too-long, blunt-edged icicle vibrated a little harder than the rest, breaking free of the overhang and plunging down to the street below. It shimmered and it twinkled and it would've cracked and shattered into a million brilliant ice crystals if it wasn't for the fact that David Jacob's hat-covered head was waiting not too far away to break its fall.

Which it did.

David dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes without even a grunt, followed by a slight jumping sound, the crackle of more ice, a muffled curse and, lastly, fluttering to the ground like snow, the rest of the contents of Jack's box of matches.

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**End Note**: After writing _His Last Cigarette_, I thought it was time I try to give Jack a nice, happy story. What I came up with instead is this :) While it may not be the nice, happy Jack-centric story I had in mind, it's definitely going to be a more light-hearted read (because it's just too much torturing our favorite characters). In fact, I plan on trying my hand at a little humor with this - it'll make a nice change, don't you think?

Next chapter coming up after the next one of High Stakes - I'll try to have one of each this weekend if I can :)

-_- stress, 02.04.11_


	2. a red bandana

******Disclaimer**: The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes.

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**Who Am I?**

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Jack Kelly didn't know what to do.

He counted to twenty—unlike Morris Delancey, he didn't have to take off his shoes in order to do so—and waited for David to groan and moan and move and maybe get back to his feet. The falling icicle knocked David's brown cap clean off his head and it was lying behind him on the cobblestones. David himself was sprawled out against the hard ground, a most awkward position, and without his cap on to cover most of his face, Jack could see that his eyes were peacefully closed.

Peaceful or dead, Jack couldn't really tell. David's skin had gone so white he was paler than the dirty snow at the edge of the street; his lips were tinged with blue, a sure sign the cold had really gotten to him—if the icicle hadn't already done him in.

—_twenty._

There wasn't even the smallest of flutters. David wasn't moving which meant that it was up to Jack.

Kicking aside the matches that fell just as David dropped, Jack crouched down and hovered over his pal. Once or twice he nudged David in the side with his boot but even a harder tap had no effect on him. Lowering himself so that he was almost nose to nose with David, Jack used the edge of his thumb to lift one of David's eyelids. He quickly let go when he saw only white; David's eyes had rolled all the way back in his head.

That's when Jack started to get a little nervous. Moving his hand, he placed the back of it against the cheek of David's that wasn't pressed to the cobbles. His skin was so icy cold that Jack felt like he was touching a marble statue. He cursed under his breath and jerked back, curling his hand into a fist then flexing his fingers so that he could forget just how cold David's flesh felt under his skin.

What should he do now?

After a few minutes where David didn't move and Jack expected a nightclub-wielding bull to head down Mulberry Street at any moment, nothing had changed and it seemed like the temperature had dropped nearly ten degrees. Shivering in the cold, Jack was beginning to wonder if maybe he should just leave David there—and if Sarah would still want to see him if she ever found out that he left her brother for dead—when he heard a low moaning sound from somewhere around his feet. Trying to erase his face of any guilt, Jack crouched down beside his fallen friend again just in time to find David's big blue eyes, somewhat dazed admittedly, staring up at him.

Jack's sigh of relief was drowned out by a particularly pitiful groan that David let out as he struggled to pull himself up to rest on his elbows.

"Wha… what happened?" he asked, his voice shaky and, for some reason, lower than it should've been. His hand flew up to cradle the back of his skull. "Ohh… why does my head _hurt_ like this?"

"An icicle dropped on it."

David's other hand moved jerkily so that his fingers were poking his side while he was still putting his full weight on his forearm, hardly sitting up at all. "Then why does my side hurt like _this_?"

"Um… maybe ya fell on it?" Jack offered.

David was frowning, and it didn't only have to do with the constant throbbing that was going on inside his head. "An icicle, Jack? Really?"

"Hey, it ain't like I cracked ya over the head or nothin' when ya weren't lookin'," Jack said with a bit of a huff as he stood back to his full height. Well, how do you like that? He could've left David on the side of the road—and maybe he should've. Let the mook freeze to death, that would've served him right. Hell, he'd been looking after David for six months now. Did Davey think he'd stop now?

With the tip of his boot that was no longer lodged firmly inside David's ribcage, Jack toed at the shards of the offending icicle that shone and sparkled and served as a halo surrounding David's fallen cap. "See," he said, "there's the damn thing right there."

David glanced over his shoulder and grimaced when he saw the chunks of ice. Forget the terrible headache—he was lucky it hadn't killed him! Shielding his eyes, he looked up and saw the hundreds of icicles that still hung over his head. He let out a barely audible yelp, made sure to grab his hat with shaky fingers and quickly tried to move out from underneath the overhang in case another freak accident sent more of the icy daggers falling down to finish the job.

Jack watched wordlessly as David scurried back under the awning, but his buried guilt got the better of him when David tried unsteadily to get back to his feet and nearly took a header back to the cobbles. Letting his reflexes take over, Jack moved quick as a flash until he was right beside David, supporting his pal with one arm under David's, the other snaked securely around his waist.

He waited until it was obvious that David was steady on his feet again and then took the arm back that was wrapped too snugly around David's thin body. The other one, the one that was all but holding David up, Jack kept that one there just in case David started to stumble again.

"Look," he said, "ya wanna come with me back to the lodging house?" Jack shot an uneasy glance at the side of David's head. Was it him, or was there already a knot sticking out there? "We can get Kloppman to look that bump on your head over for ya."

"No… no." For a moment David forgot himself and he shook his head. Then the pain caught up with him, David winced and Jack was just about to insist that they head down Mulberry Street and off towards Duane when David slipped as easily as an eel out of Jack's grip. "I think… unh… I think I should just go home and lay down."

"You want me to walk back with you? There's still hours 'til curfew, I got plenty of time."

Though it seemed from the wrinkles in his forehead and the way he went even paler that trying to think wasn't the smartest idea, David did take a few seconds to mull Jack's suggestion over. He even managed a crooked, almost-grin. "Only if you'll help me explain to Mama how I got so filthy."

And Jack noticed then that David's fall to the ground had left a large wet, dirty, muddy stain all along the right side of David's trousers and coat; there was also a palm-sized smudge that covered his swollen cheek and that didn't even begin to mention how carefully he was holding himself, as if even the tiniest of steps made his head feel like it was going to fall off his shoulders. David and Sarah's mother might not mind Jack coming around to see her one daughter, spend time with her eldest son and serve as an unwitting role model for Les, but that didn't mean Esther Jacobs wouldn't automatically think the worst if Jack brought David home in such a state with a cockamamie story about a spooked horse and a fallen icicle.

Even if it was the truth.

"So I'll see you at the distribution center tomorrow afternoon for the evening edition?"

This time David caught himself before he started to nod.

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Now, Jack Kelly wasn't the sort of fella to get spooked easily. Still, when Kloppman woke the bunkroom up the next morning and he hurried with the rest of the boys to wash up and head out to sell, he left the lodging house with a strange, gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach. It was a niggle, a nag, and he couldn't quite place it so he pushed it aside once he made it outside.

It wasn't that difficult, either. When the cold air of another frigid New York morning woke you up by slapping you in the face, there wasn't much else you could focus on except just how damn freezing it was. A fella had to keep his legs pumping so his thighs didn't join together, his fingers curled up protectively and hidden inside a sleeve before there weren't any fingers left.

On the nice days, the warm spring days, the hot summer days that lacked the stifling humidity, it was always a race down to the distribution center. The newsies would run and skip and play; for the moment, at least, they could regain the childhood that by any rights should've been theirs. But not when it was well below freezing and the icy wind cut through their skin like a diamond knife. On those days, it took them all they had to leave the lodging house and make it to the distribution center without turning into walking, talking snow-newsies.

Which was probably why, when Jack finally arrived at the distribution center just off Newspaper Row, he wasn't the first boy waiting at the gate.

Except that, with him leading the other boys from Duane Street, he usually _was_ the first boy waiting at the gate. At near-eighteen, Jack was one of the oldest boys left living in the lodging house and had been the unofficial leader of the Manhattan boys for close to a year. It was his privilege to buy his newspapers before any of the others—

—but someone else was waiting. Someone of medium height, no hat on a head full of brown curly hair, a pair of dark slacks that had certainly seen better days. Someone—_not Jack_—was waiting to buy his papes before any of the rest of the boys.

Who was this guy?

Assuming it had to be someone new to the city, new to the way things worked around Manhattan, Jack waved a hand behind him to quiet the snickers and the chortles that had risen up from his fellow newsies when they noticed the newcomer. Then, bringing his hand back around so that he could blow on it and maybe feel like it was part of his body and not an ice block connected to his wrist, Jack walked up to the new boy and tapped him on the shoulder.

The boy took longer than he needed to to turn around; cocky and sure, Jack thought, and not a good fit for Manhattan if he was any judge. And then he came face to face with the newcomer, recognized the blue eyes, the frown and, well, he almost fell over.

"David?"

The surprise was so obvious in Jack's voice, the way it went all high like that. The other boys, Race and Blink and Mush and all the other fellas, they all started to talk amongst themselves, some pointing out that it's been ages since they'd seen Davey down at the distribution center in the morning, others wondering if maybe Dave had gotten too big for his britches if he thought he could go in front of Jack at the gates. Sure, him and Jack were partners, and he'd had a hand in the strike last summer, but he weren't a real newsie, was he?

But David acted like he hadn't heard any of them. Instead, eyeing Jack defensively, he snapped, "You talkin' to me?"

It never even occurred to Jack at first that there was something different about David: the way he was carrying himself, the way he'd suddenly developed an exaggerated New York accent… all he knew was that David was supposed to be in lessons, not here at the distribution center. Oh, if his mother knew… Mrs. Jacobs was going to kill him!

"Dave!" he exclaimed again. "What are ya doin' here?"

"Dave?" parroted David. His expression was one of confusion with a great deal of defiance thrown in for good measure. "Who's this Dave fella you keep goin' on about? My name is _Jack_."

And that's when Jack Kelly noticed one thing, at least—that's when he noticed the red rag knotted and tied around David Jacob's neck.

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**End Note**: Let me just end this chapter by saying that part of this - the what do I do? is he dead? should I leave him? is that murder? - is based on something that happened to me when I was in my teens. Let's just say that midnight sledding and snowboarding when you shouldn't be at one of the steepest hills in the area (and you've never snowboarded before!) is never a good thing and, well, it just proves you start to think some really bad thoughts ;) And, for the record, my brother is the one who wanted to leave - I convinced him to pull our friend back up the hill on the sled - and our friend turned out to be perfectly find in the end.

_He_ didn't develop another personality ;) But David...

New chapter coming soon!

-_- stress, 02.08.11_


	3. a bruised tomato

**Disclaimer**: The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes.

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**Who Am I?**

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Jack Kelly could hardly believe what he was seeing.

Did he really look like such a pansy with his bandana tied around his neck like that?

But it wasn't a real bandana, was it? Because he didn't like the way David was watching him—he never smirked like that, did he?—Jack found himself staring in disbelief at David's lily white throat. Without even realizing he was doing it, Jack leaned forward and reached out, one finger stretched outward as he went to crook it underneath the scrap of red fabric—

David slapped Jack's hand away. "Hands off, buddy!"

There was a collective drawing-in of breath coming from behind him, broken only by Racetrack Higgins' crow of laughter and his shouted odds on how fast it would take Jack to soak his old pal Davey. Race offered four to one odds that Jack would retaliate before he remembered that David was Sarah's brother and raised them up to ten to one, and even Jack knew they were bum odds.

Because this… that wasn't David, alright?

But, if he wasn't David, who _was_ he (or, better yet: who did he _think_ he was)?

Well, there was the red bandana—on closer examination, Jack realized that it wasn't anything like the bandana he already wore but a scrap of red fabric with black ink splash on it instead—and the dusty dark grey trousers that looked like he got them out of a trash pile. There was a length of rope tied loosely around his tiny waist, newer than the one Jack wore...

The one _Jack_ wore...

And then there was the fact he said his name was—

Ah, _hell_.

Jack shook his head, that nagging feeling sinking even further in the pit of his belly; the circulation bell rung high overhead and, for once, he barely heard it. "Let me get this straight," he said slowly, "'cause maybe I didn't hear ya right." At least, he damn well _hoped_ it was his ears that were broken. "Your name... it's _Jack_?"

"That's what my mother called me," David answered smugly.

"Not David?"

"What kind o' scabber has a name like _David_?"

Secretly Jack agreed, but that didn't mean that he ever expected to hear David talk like that. What was going on? "You feelin' alright?" Jack frowned and held up his hand. "Look, how many fingers am I holdin' up?"

David's mouth worked silently as he counted but a stormy look flashed across his face before he finished. "Hey, what is this? Some kind o' inquisition?"

And that's when he knew that David Jacobs he knew wasn't entirely gone, despite the weird way he was acting (though his choice in clothing was, in the real Jack's opinion, much improved). Because Jack Kelly didn't even know what the word inquisition meant—hell, he didn't even know it _was_ a word! Holding onto that thought, Jack had the sudden suspicion that maybe this was a set-up. Davey was a smart guy. Maybe he'd figured out that his so-called "buddy" had very nearly left him on the side of Mulberry and this was his revenge, pretending to be Jack.

Because he had to be pretending, right?

Right?

Jack closed his eyes for a moment, exhaled, then adopted what he thought was a winning smile. "Dave... Jack," he said, thinking it would probably be best to go along with it until he could figure out what kind of game David was playing, "maybe you should," and there was when Jack opened his eyes and noticed that David wasn't listening to a word he had to say, "hey—" and this time Jack couldn't bring himself to call David _Jack_ again "—pal?"

But, you see, Jack's eyes weren't the only things that had opened. The gate doors had swung in, inviting all of the newsies down the walkway to the front window. But no had one moved yet, not until—

"'Scuse me," David said roughly, pushing past Jack so that he was the first in line, "I got papes to buy."

And off he went, and Jack didn't stop him and half the Manhattan newsies watched this happen with an air of disbelief before they remembered that it was damn cold out and maybe, if they wanted a roof over their heads that night , maybe they should follow David inside the gates for their own newspapers.

"Hey, Cowboy? What's Davey doin'?"

There was a voice at his elbow and the unmistakable stink of a stale cigar in the air. Jack didn't even need to turn around to know who it was.

Instead, he watched David sidle up to the window with a worried expression. He shook his head. "I don't know, Race, but I'm sure as hell gonna find out."

* * *

It wasn't as easy as that.

After following after David and listening to him try to charm and haggle with the old man who replaced Weasel at the distribution window, Jack tried to get David talking but the most he got out of him was a funny look and a "Who are you?" in return. He wouldn't answer Jack's questions and Jack wasn't quite sure he could answer David's—he figured it might be a bad idea to admit that _he_ was the real Jack Kelly—so that left Jack stuck. David had bought his papes already and he obviously intended to go selling which meant that, if he wanted to get to the bottom of this funny business, he had to continue tagging along.

Which led Jack to ask himself one question: where to now?

Jack Kelly had never gone within a block of a school if he could help it and he didn't intend to start now. So, instead of insisting David fork over the papers he bought—a hundred was way too many in this weather, what was Dave thinking?—and dragging David off to his lessons, Jack decided to take half the papers off David's hands and the two of them would go selling together before anything else.

Maybe then Jack would have some idea as to what the hell was going on. And if not, well, he hadn't had to pay for any papes that day.

He had to give David credit, though. With his knowledge of fancy words and how to actually use them right and Jack's God-given talent to improve the truth, the pair of them sold through at least half of the hundred newspapers before figuring the rest as a lost cause. It was more than enough of a profit for them to share a hearty meal at Tibby's—where David tried again to find out who Jack was, if he was already Jack Kelly, and Jack changed the subject by ordering more fried chicken—and after they sold the other fifty back to the distribution center, both boys walked away with full pockets.

They split fifty papes for the evening edition and Jack watched in astonishment as David took a story on a carthorse throwing a shoe on the ice and turned it into a travesty and a tragedy and a whole assortment of t-letter words that tossed around Jack's head like the handful of pennies in his pocket. Even more amazing, they were sold out of their papers by the time the sun went down.

It was with a wolfish expression that made Jack scowl that David suggested the two new partners and pals—eventually that was the story Jack gave him and, naïve as ever, David swallowed it up... which just went to show that he _wasn't Jack Kelly_—took a trip on over to Irving Hall to watch Medda Larkson perform. It took a bit of quick thinking on Jack's part to insist that they save a show like Medda's vaudeville act for another night. He had to. He didn't know how he would explain it to Medda or anyone and, besides, wouldn't Mrs. Jacobs be having kittens by now about her lost boy?

Jack hoped that once he started off towards the Jacobs' place that David would have had a sudden burst of inspiration and remember who he really was—that, or maybe stop pretending he was Jack, though Jack couldn't help but suspect that maybe he wasn't really pretending after all. It was a foolish hope, though. David walked like he own the streets, nose up, chest out, but it was easy as anything to tell he had no idea where in the world he was going.

But when they reached the front stoop of the tenement where David lived with his family and David's face lit up in recognition, a flicker of Jack's fading hope flared up. Maybe he _did_ know.

"So, uh, Jack?" Inwardly Jack cringed, like he did every time he had to bring himself to call David by his own name. "You know where I brought ya then?"

"Oh, I know this place," David said with a sly smile. He removed his newsboy cap and patted his curly hair in place and then, without another glance back at Jack, he led the way right up to the Jacobs' apartment.

The hope managed to linger just as long as it took for David to make it right to the door of his home and, rather than enter, knock importantly and wait for someone to answer. When Sarah did and Jack caught sight of the curious way she looked at her brother—almost as if she didn't know who he was—the hope finally gave up and extinguished itself.

"Evenin', Sarah," David simpered, and Jack bit back the urge to groan. He _never_ simpered like that. "I hope you don't mind, but I've come to call on you."

"_David_? Are you alright?"

"It's Jack," David said gently, tapping himself on the chest. "Don't ya remember?"

"What? Oh... of course. Jack." Sarah shot a panicked look at Jack. He shrugged and motioned with one hand for her to play along. With the smallest of confused nods, Sarah went on to ask, "What are you doing out here... I mean, _here_?"

"I was wonderin' if I might come in and see you tonight."

"Well, then, um... come in?"

Without another word, though even Jack could see she wasn't at a loss for them, Sarah stepped to the side to let David in. Jack followed, but while David kept on going until he was standing near the kitchen table, Sarah stopped Jack before he'd even taken more than three steps. Then again, since Sarah stopped him with the lightest of touches against his arm, he couldn't say he minded too much.

"Jack?" she murmured. "What's wrong with my brother?"

Despite the concern in her voice and the way her fingers tightened and dug into his skin, it made Jack feel a little better, a little saner, that he wasn't the only one who knew that something else was so very, very wrong. At least someone else could see that David wasn't quite acting like himself...

Jack could've kissed Sarah out of relief but the worry in her brown eyes kept him standing where he was. Besides, it wasn't like there was anything he could say to take the worry away. He didn't know half what was going on and he'd spent the whole day with David!

But there were times when even a liar had to tell the truth and, well, maybe this was one of those times (not like he could really lie to Sarah anyway... not about anything so important, really). "Ya see, there was a spot of trouble with an icicle last night," he said carefully, not sure how much of the truth she wanted to hear, or how much David had said when he was still David, "and, well, I think Davey got knocked on the head a little."

That didn't seem to surprise Sarah at all. "I know, he told Mama last night that there was an accident—" She paused there and, turning behind her to make sure David was preoccupied with playing with a fork and knife Sarah had already laid out for supper, she lowered her voice before going on, "—but this morning..."

"Let me guess," jumped in Jack, "he's not actin' like his self."

"No, he's not."

"And ya think he's actin' more like me, is that right?"

Sarah took a second to answer, as if she was choosing her words with care. "He said his name was Jack and... there's certain similarities, I have to admit. Except..."

Jack didn't like the way she said that. If anything, he had a reputation to protect—what did David do while masquerading as Jack to made Sarah say _except..._ like that? "Except what?" he asked, the tiniest hint of dread in his voice.

She glanced behind her again, saw that David was now check his reflection on the back of one of the spoons—he grinned at her when he caught her looking—and quickly turned back to Jack. Her hand was already searching the front pocket of the apron she was wearing; there was a bulge there that in his upset Jack hadn't noticed. Her hand must've closed around it and she pulled out a hand that was folded in a loose fist.

"Jack," she said, whispering this time, "he slipped this into my hand this morning."

She opened her first palm-side up, revealing a small, bruised tomato.

"I... I didn't understand what he meant. Then I thought, if he really... I don't know... if he really thinks he's you now... Do you know what this means?"

And Jack decided then and there that he would rather be stuck with David Jacobs as his double for the rest of the year than admit to Sarah that he pocketed a tomato out of nerves—an old thief habit—the first time they were ever alone together. There were times to tell the truth, sure, but not _all_ the time.

* * *

**End Note**: I know I said that the next chapter would be out soon but, wouldn't you know, I got struck with the worst case of writer's block in _ages_! I just managed to get that one-shot fic I did out last week, and I'm still trying to get _High Stakes_ the way I want it. At least I got half of the next chapter for this story done... plus an initial outline for the next dramatic epic coming out in a little bit :)

I hope you liked this chapter! Let me know ;)

-_- stress, 03.05.11_


	4. a needle and thread

**Disclaimer**: The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes.

* * *

**Who Am I?**

* * *

Jack never thought he'd be grateful to have anyone interrupt a conversation he was having with David's sister, least of all David himself. But, just then, as Sarah held the slightly turned, very mushy tomato in the palm of her hand, waiting for Jack's answer, when David decided he'd had enough of their whispered chat by the door, Jack didn't mind at all as David stopped fooling around with the cutlery and came right over to join in.

"Didja miss me, Sarah?"

"Of... of course I did," Sarah said easily, though her voice was kind of strangled. "I'm so glad to see you."

The tomato, Jack noticed, had disappeared back into Sarah's pocket. He hoped it stayed there.

If David heard how strange Sarah was acting, stiff and unnatural and nothing at all like her sweet, free self, it wasn't something he paid attention to. Instead, he grinned. His answering grin was blinding; Jack longed to smack it off his face. He didn't get the chance, though, seeing as how David neatly stepped in front of Jack, blocking him from Sarah's view.

"So, I was wonderin'," and Jack didn't need to see his face to know how smarmy it would look, "how 'bout takin' a stroll up to the rooftop with me?"

"Um… " she began, throwing a helpless glance in Jack's direction. From behind David, Jack shook his head and mimed shivering, rubbing his hands up and down his arms, trembling. Sarah caught on and quickly said, "Won't it bit too cold, D—I mean, Jack?"

"I can keep you warm."

Jack had to swallow back his groan. Did he really sound like such a letch when he thought he was being charming?

Sarah spared her addled brother a prim smile but even Jack could see that was her no-nonsense expression, the one that even _he_ couldn't get around. "Maybe later. I'm expecting Mama home soon."

David nodded as if he understood—and considering, deep down, he knew how his mother felt about Sarah and Jack spending too much time alone together, he had to understand. But then... "What were you'se two talkin' 'bout over here, anyway?" he asked suspiciously, nodding behind him at where Jack was still standing.

Talk about tact, Jack huffed. Wisely, though, he kept his mouth shut.

"I was just asking, uh, my friend here," and Sarah winced because she had no idea what to call Jack, "if he could help me with a needle I needed threaded for my lace." She reached into the never-ending depths of her apron pocket and, to Jack's astonishment, pulled out a spool of white thread and a needle slipped through a small swath of fabric. He couldn't help but wonder how in the world she fit all that stuff in there. "But he was just telling me that he wouldn't be able to"

She looked pointedly at Jack. He nodded and held up his hands just in time for David to turn and look disdainfully at him. Ignoring that look, Jack showed David his ink-stained palms. "Can't do it. All thumbs, me."

With a fluttering of her eyelashes that Jack didn't think necessary, Sarah offered her thread and needle out to David. "Do you think _you_ could help me, Jack?"

The real Jack tried to pretend he couldn't hear how sweet and charming Sarah was being to someone that wasn't _him_. Even if it was to her brother. Even if she was acting like she was speaking to him. He didn't have to like it and he sure as hell didn't.

But David did. Almost preening like a proud peacock, he took the thread and the needle and moved a little further into the kitchen where the light was better. Then, the tip of his tongue sticking out of his mouth in concentration—_I do _not_ do that_, Jack tried to insist to himself—he sat at the kitchen table and began the task of threading Sarah's sewing needle.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack glanced at Sarah.

"He threads my needles for me all the time," she explained. There was hopefulness in her voice. "That means... he's still in there, right? He's still David."

"He sure as hell can't be me," huffed Jack under his breath. "'Cause _I'm_ me."

Sarah bit her lip, trying not to let the worry show—trying and _failing_. "Don't you know someone who might be able to tell what's wrong with David? Someone who could help?"

"Kloppman's pretty good with bumps and bruises. I wanted to ask him last night but—"

"Can you ask him then? Can you help my brother? For me?"

There wasn't much that Jack Kelly wouldn't do for Sarah Jacobs, especially as seeing how getting David fixed would work out better for him (and, well, David) than anyone else. Still, there was one nagging little doubt... "What about your mother?" he asked quietly, for David was almost done with his task, "Won't she wonder what happened to him if I take him with me and he ain't home for supper tonight?"

"Jack, I'll take care of Mama. You just… take care of my brother, please?"

It was a good thing Esther Jacobs was out with Les because she would've had a fit to see Jack place his hand so forwardly on her daughter's shoulder. If only she knew... "I promise, Sarah," he told her, leaning in and placing a gentle kiss on her cheek. "And I'll bring him back when he's all better."

"When he's David again," she agreed.

Jack wasn't sure if David heard any of their whispered conversation or if he caught sight of the kiss he laid on Sarah's cheek, but he couldn't really find it in himself to care. Sarah was _his _girl and David was just her brother. Then again, as David rose from the table, the threaded needle proffered out in front of him, there was a steeliness to his blue eyes that make Jack involuntarily gulp.

David was stiff and polite as he gave the needle back to Sarah. He thanked her for allowing him to visit and asked if he could see her again. Sarah, confused at the direction his visit had taken—and putting nothing past her brother who thought he was suddenly Jack Kelly—told him the truth: that she would love to see him again. That brightened David up considerably but then, as if he drank some of the expired milk you could get at Tibby's some times, he scowled and said his goodbyes. Without even looking to see where the real Jack was, David left the apartment.

Jack shrugged at Sarah and gave her another kiss before hurrying after David. He saw David turn once to check that he was following after him but the other boy said nothing.

In fact, David waited until they'd make it back outside before he whirled on Jack, pushing him right in the dusty vest. "Why you kissin' my girl?" he demanded.

Jack held his hands up in a gesture of peace; it was either that, or he would've just went ahead and decked David already. Now David was _pushing _him? He took a deep breath, counted to three, remembered Sarah's earnestness and the tomato still in her pocket and tried his best to control his temper.

"Hold on there, it was only a friendly peck… no harm meant. Me and Sarah, we're just pals… Jack. Like me and you."

But David wasn't buying it. Stepping up on his tiptoes so that he was eye to eye with Jack, he said with a sneer, "Yeah, that's the funny thing. You keep tellin' me we're pals, but I don't seem to remember you at all. Who are ya?"

And a name Jack hoped to never have to say again came spilling out before he could stop himself: "Francis Sullivan."

"Francis?" David's blue eyes brightened in recognition. He clapped Jack on the shoulder harder than his arms should've allowed and settled back on his heels. "Oh… you mean _Frank_? Ya shoulda said somethin'! Do I feel like a bummer or what? How did I ever forget _you_, Frank?" He held up his hand, ticking off fingers as he said, "Dead mother, crook of a father, Refuge escapee, the talk of the city. Hell, you're a real memorable guy, Frank. Sorry, Frank."

"Thanks for remindin' me," Jack muttered, his expression more of a pout now than murderous. "Now, could ya stop sayin' Frank so damn much?"

* * *

As Jack brought David back with him to the lodging house on Duane Street to ask Kloppman for help, he couldn't help wondering himself how much of a mess he'd gotten into and just how he was going to get out. If, that is, Kloppman could do anything for David's bump—and, considering how much damage that simple bump was doing, he wasn't holding out much hope.

It was easy to see what had happened. A blow to his head and suddenly he wasn't David Jacobs anymore—he was Jack Kelly. Which meant that Jack Kelly wasn't Jack Kelly anymore.

He was Francis Sullivan. Or, as David—_Jack_—kept insisting, _Frank_.

There wasn't an icicle big enough in all of New York to make him forget all of this!

What was worse were the little things. The way he would spit and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand and even run his hand through his thick curls until they were more like a brown pouf surrounding his head than hair. The way he sauntered as he walked, taking up more of the sidewalk than by any rights was his. The way he leered at any girl they passed, a wink here, a small smile there, but he never said a word to them because, well, Sarah was waiting for him back at her apartment. His fingers were twitchy, his palms itchy, and David always looked poised to run.

God help a Delancey brother if he decided to make an appearance!

The whole thing was really making Jack feel ill at ease. Is that really how David saw him? Because he didn't really act like that, did he?

_Did he?_

One thing for sure, he had to still be David Jacobs in there somewhere. David Jacobs, the Walking Mouth. Because, pretending to be Jack or not, he _just didn't shut up_!

It wasn't a far walk from the Jacobses' apartment to Duane Street and Jack eventually found himself ignoring David. If he nodded every couple of sentences and threw out a noncommittal sound every block or so, David didn't seem to mind that he was carrying the conversation. He seemed to have an opinion on everything—and Jack had to tell himself that that was David's characteristic and not _his—_and Jack was counting down the blocks until he could see Kloppman and hope the old supervisor could do something to fix David. And that's when he heard:

"Hey, Frank? Ya got a light?"

Maybe he was trying too hard to ignore the name—or maybe even David's voice—but Jack immediately reached into his pocket and pulled out a fresh box of matches he managed to swipe off the side table next to Racetrack's bunk. It was only then, when he had one single match out that he remembered who was asking.

"You don't sm—where the hell didja get a cigarette from?"

"I always keep a couple hand-rolls in my pocket." The right hand pocket too, Jack noted; the same pocket Jack kept his smokes and matches tucked inside. "I must've forgot my matches though, Frankie. Here," David said, sticking out his chin so that the cigarette was right under Jack's nose, "help a fella out."

Frank... Frankie... now, Jack Kelly knew there was something wrong with his pal and he knew that, if David was in his right mind, he never would've resorted to using Jack's hated birth name over and over and over again... but he also knew that it hadn't even been one whole day yet and he was quickly losing his patience. So, yeah, maybe he was being just a little spiteful—

"Sure thing, Jack." Bowing his head so David couldn't see his mischievous smirk, Jack struck the match and held it out in order to light David's cigarette. "There you go."

The two boys had paused, Jack holding the match, David with the cigarette between his lips in a way that made it seem like he actually knew what he was doing. Jack watched as the tip caught light, then he waited on bated breath as David took that first puff and—

"What's the matter?" he asked as innocently as he was able.

"Nothin', Frank," David said in between coughs. "Just a little somethin' in my throat."

And, for the first time since he arrived at the distribution center to find David Jacobs in a bandana and a rope belt, Jack Kelly let out a real laugh.

* * *

**End Note**: Well, there you go. I thought I should get out another chapter of this story before I post the first chapter of my new dramatic fic. I didn't think I would do another heavy one after _Five_ - hence this parody-type thing - but, well, at least I'll always have something funny to work on when that one gets too much!

-_- stress, 03.20.11_


	5. a frying pan

**Disclaimer**: The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes.

* * *

**Who Am I?**

* * *

It was short-lived, however. David may have made his day hell, whether he meant to or not, but he was still his pal and Jack knew it was a pretty crummy thing to do, laughing at a pal. Unless, of course, he did something funny. Or maybe fell and didn't, you know, crack his head and forget who he was. But even in his mood, Jack Kelly knew that laughing because David was choking on cigarette smoke wasn't something a pal should be doing.

So he stopped laughing and a few moments later he bumped into David purposely when David was making a great display of ashing the cigarette. And, wouldn't you know, the cigarette fell from loose fingers right to the dirt—just in time for Jack's left boot to find the smoke and step down pretty heavily on it.

When Jack asked David if he needed another light, he wasn't surprised that David turned him down.

They finished the rest of the walk to Duane Street in silence. At least, Jack was silent. David went right back to talking but, perhaps out of some grateful instinct the real David couldn't quite fight, he did stop calling Jack Frank.

And that, at least, kept David from rubbing Jack the wrong way. Until they got to Duane Street and Jack just about lost it.

_Kloppman wasn't there._

He didn't know where the old superintendent was or why he wasn't at his post but after Jack cursed his bad luck, he decided he didn't want to risk the hand of fate slapping him again so he left two nickels in the desk drawer, one for him and one for David. Then, hoping he could catch Kloppman in the morning and ask his advice, he led David inside the bunkroom and, with the last drop of patience he had left, told David to pick a bunk and just go to sleep.

David must've known better than to argue just then with his good pal "Frank" because, without a word, he started to undress. Jack huffed, wished David was acting like Jack in that moment just so he could maybe get the satisfaction at yelling at himself, and then stormed away when it seemed more of David's common sense (and self preservation) was overruling Jack's innate sense to get himself into trouble.

He used the icy water at the pump to cool down his raging temper. Jack splashed his face, knocking his cowboy hat as he ran his quickly numbing fingers through his greasy hair. He wasn't up for a proper wash, he was too tired and now too cold to try, and he knew it wasn't the smartest of ideas to leave David on his own for too long.

Not in the bunkroom, at least.

Especially not when he was convinced he was Jack Kelly.

As Jack made his way back into the bunk area, Racetrack sidled over to him, watching curiously David try to take off the red rag he insisted on wearing all day. So lost in trying to get it undone, he barely noticed it when Race tapped Jack on the arm and the two newsies had a whispered conversation not too far away from him.

"He still actin' like you?" Race asked.

Jack jerked his head over at David. With the bandana, the vest and the rope he hadn't removed from his waist yet, there was no denying that David was still acting the part of Jack. "What do you think?"

David was sticking his tongue out now, a look of utmost concentration on his face; Racetrack secretly though he looked constipated. "Ya think maybe we should bring him to a doctor?"

"You payin'?" Jack shot back, feeling testy again. If only they could afford to get David to a doctor... he'd have him locked up in Bellevue faster than he could blink!

Racetrack scratched his neck. "We can fix him up right here," he offered.

"How?"

"I... I dunno, Jack."

The name caught David's attention and he paused, awkward fingers still fumbling with the knot on his not-bandana. "Hey? You callin' me?"

Jack bit the inside of his cheek, counted to three and called loftily back to him, "Don't worry about it, _Jack_. Now just... just go to sleep."

Which, as it turned out, was probably the worst thing he could have said just then. Because, by the time Racetrack shrugged his sympathy and headed off for bed, David had finally defeated the knotted piece of fabric. Then, by the time the real Jack Kelly got around to taking his boots off, hanging his cowboy hat on the edge and slinging his real bandana around the hat, David had already climbed up and into Jack's top bunk and was blissfully snoring.

Snoring _in Jack's bunk_, leaving Jack to grumble and curse and try to fall asleep in the half-sized, cock-eyed bunk in the back not even little Tumbler would sleep in.

* * *

The next day was, if possible, even worse.

David woke up first and raced down to the distribution center in the lead, Jack and some of the others hot on his heels; they whizzed by Kloppman, Jack never getting the chance to say a word. With a lack of Delancey brothers following the strike, David had to make do grabbing the newsboy cap off of Skittery's head. Only Jack's intervening, his jumping in between Skittery and David before Skittery could jump David, kept David from sporting a shiner that would've put the one Jack got at last summer's rally to shame. Well, that, and Jack promising to slip Skitts a dollar later to buy a new cap when David overshot the overhang and fell, dropping both himself and Skittery's cap in a slushy mud puddle.

After shaking off his tumble—and to Jack's ever growing surprise—David even managed to get Race to spot him two bits to buy his papers and, even more surprising, Jack managed to get out of the distribution center without Race's stubby hand being held out in his direction.

The actual selling didn't go so bad. Like the day before, David's flair with the words and a newly adopted devil-may-care attitude when it came to, ahem, improving the truth came in handy. The papers were flying out of their hands, despite the continued bite and winter chill, and Jack even allowed himself to be impressed with his new partner. Eventually leaving David behind with a crowd of customers clamoring to buy the paper thanks to whatever headline David had cooked up, Jack thought it would be all right if he went a block or two over to sell some of his own papes to another crowd.

Jack had just sold four papers and was getting into the swing of things when, suddenly, David came wheeling down the street, arms pumping, feet flying, running as if the law itself was behind him. He slowed enough when he saw Jack, and grabbed him by the arm, nearly knocking the other boy over. Without a word, or maybe out of breath, he pointed one shaky finger behind him.

At first Jack didn't know what had spooked David—and then he saw him. A rather perplexed old man with white hair and a black hat. David paled visibly when he saw the man heading toward them, hissed, "Snyder!", and would've ran off again if Jack hadn't had the foresight to grab David's other arm with his own.

And Jack Kelly knew then that David Jacobs was pretending to be the Jack Kelly from when they first met.

_Wonderful._

Somehow David managed to hold onto the papers he hadn't sold. After Jack pretended to hide David until the poor, confused man with the white hair continued past them—he looked at the two boys with wide eyes, shook his head and hurried away—he led him in the other direction and stayed right by his side until all the papers were finally gone.

After that, Jack had half a mind to drop David off at his apartment, effectively washing his hands of this whole mess until David woke up and was himself again. After all, he was fine following the icicle hitting his head—it was only _after_ that he got fixated on the laughable idea that he was Jack. Maybe if he got a good night's sleep in his own bed again, he'd wake up and remember who he really was.

But, nagged the quiet voice that had to be Jack's conscience, what if he _didn't_? Jack's inner voice didn't speak up often so, when it did, he found cause to listen. And it was right. What if David didn't remember who he was? Could he leave Sarah in the clutches of her lecherous not-brother? He knew what _he_ would do if he was sleeping in a bed not too far from Sarah's—

—that clinched it. He couldn't bring David back home. Besides, he'd promised Sarah.

After doing what they could to sell the evening edition and sharing a hot dog over at Tibby's, Jack couldn't think of another good excuse to keep David from visiting Irving Hall. So he followed David with a sigh and slightly hunched shoulders and prayed that Medda was too busy with her act to spare them a second glance. Jack absolutely refused to let David in through the back, even going so far as to shell out his hard-earned money in order to buy a ticket up front.

In his head, he kept a running tab on how much money David would owe him when he was David again.

As it turned out, Medda _was_ busy with her set and her show and they were able to sit back and enjoy the performances. That is, until David stood on the seat of his chair, whooping and hollering and making Jack wish he could crawl under the table and just die. In the end, he passed over another couple of nickels to keep David drowning in cheap liquor so that he would stop embarrassing Jack.

He took to drinking much better than he did to smoking.

When the show was over, he half-carried, half-dragged the drunken David back to Duane Street. It reminded him of the time Les managed to fall asleep despite a rip-roaring riot not more than a block away and Jack had to carry him home. What he wouldn't have given to have David weigh as much as Les—or to be able to be bringing the elder Jacobs boy back home.

He didn't stop by the superintendent's desk that night because if Kloppman was there, there wasn't anything he could do about David's state with David in _this _state. David was still awake but barely, and Jack had to hook his arms underneath David's in order to get him upstairs to the bunkrooms in one piece.

But just because he didn't go to Kloppman for help, that didn't mean that good old Racetrack wasn't upstairs waiting with a half-smoked cigar, a smirk and, at last, an idea.

He helped Jack get David situated, sitting him on the floor beside Jack's bunk. Then, when David's head was lolling back and he was making the gurgling sound Jack always made before he was about to vomit up all of Medda's cheap whiskey—Jack took a step back just in case—Race hurried over to his bunk and started rooting around underneath for something. Meanwhile, David stopped making that gurgling noise and was now bobbing his head back and forth to music only he could hear.

Just in case, Jack stayed far away.

From underneath his bunk, all Jack could see of Race was his feet. But then, almost muffled, he heard his voice call out, "The way I see it, if one knock to his head turned him into you, Cowboy, maybe another knock'll bring him back."

When Race said he had a plan, it was something like _that_ that Jack was afraid of. Forgetting his worries about David throwing up all over him, Jack groaned as he sank down onto his bunk, and buried his head in his hands. At his feet, David was leaning up against the bottommost bunk, fiddling with the frayed end of the loose sheet, humming under his breath one of the more raucous pieces of music from Medda's show. "How are we gonna get another icicle to drop on his head?"

"That's the beauty of my plan. We don't need an icicle. Just smack him with this."

Jack cautiously lifted his head up. In his hand, Race was holding out a rusted, dented frying pan. Jack knew better than to ask him where he got it from.

But he did say, "Why me?"

"He's your best pal."

Jack eyed it skeptically. It was an _interesting _plan, but... "Won't it hurt him?"

"When I get out to Santa Fe," blurted out David suddenly as his bloodshot eyes snapped open and he struggled to get back to his feet, "I'm gonna ride the women and court the horses!"

Jack stood up first."Give it to me."

Racetrack handed over the frying pan without a word. Jack hefted it up, weighing it. It didn't feel _too_ heavy and if he hit David just right, making sure not to hit him too hard, there was a good chance that this could work. At least, Jack had to tell himself that. How else could he justify smacking David on the back of his head with a frying pan?

Racetrack Higgins and his brilliant ideas, sheesh.

But he went for it anyway.

_Thwack!_

David didn't do anything at first but blink. Then, with a high-pitched squeal, he started to sing: "High times, hard times, sometimes the living is sweet and sometimes there's nothing to eat, but I always land on my feet..."

"No good. He's singing like he's Medda now." Race shook his head. "Hit him again, Jack."

Jack did, bringing the frying pan back a little further before aiming right for the side where he thought David might've hit the street the other night. This time David's eyes closed for a moment before they popped open again, dazed and confused and just as bloodshot. He stumbled forward from the force of the blow, falling on his knees and leaning up against the bottom bunk that faced Jack's.

"It's a fine life, carryin' the banner…" slurred David, holding onto the wooden beam for dear life.

"I think you hit him too hard that time. He's yowlin' like an alleycat!"

Jack gave him another tap, a lighter tap. David's poor head couldn't take it anymore so with an almost mumbled, "Santa Fe, wait for me," he sank into blissful unconsciousness.

This time it was Racetrack's turn to give up his bunk.

* * *

**End Note**: I told you I needed to have something funny ;) I'm thinking the next chapter should be the last one - we'll see!

-_- stress, 04.05.11_


	6. a patch of ice

**Disclaimer**: The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes.

* * *

**Who Am I?**

* * *

Jack Kelly _really_ hated winter.

While Race took his turn in the cockeyed cot that was just the right height for the short Irish boy, Jack laid awake in his bunk, trying not to think about the fact that David had slept in it last night. He was currently snoring away in Race's borrowed bed; the snores made Jack feel a little better—they meant that David was still alive.

And the frying pan was stowed away beneath Race's bunk in case Jack got up the nerve to try knocking David's identity back into his head.

It was quiet in the bunkroom, the only sound really out of place being David's snuffles. Too quiet, in fact, which was probably another reason why Jack couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned, beat up his pillow a couple of times, pretended that the linens were just as damp yesterday, and tried his damndest to figure out what to do next. The silence in the room was almost deafening and Jack was tempted to break out in song like David had, but he doubted the Manhattan boys' loyalty towards him didn't extend to vaudeville tunes at two o'clock in the morning.

The reason behind the quiet was apparent very early the next day.

New York City had been blanketed with snow overnight. The city was at a standstill, at least two, maybe three feet of snow covering _everything_, making it pristine and white. The snow created a hush over the normally hustling and bustling city, a sweet silence that would've been even sweeter if it wasn't for the fact that, when they tried to push the exits open, they couldn't.

And, even worse for Jack Kelly, when he went searching for the superintendent in his office, he realized that Kloppman must have been caught out when the blizzard started last night. Kloppman still wasn't there; he couldn't help Jack figure out what was wrong with David. Who knew where he was or how long the snow would keep him from returning?

The newsboys were snowed in. Kloppman was snowed out.

And Jack was beginning to run out of options.

It took two days to dig them out. In that time, David occupied the boys trapped in the lodging house by telling stories that all seemed to feature a dashing, brave, handsome cowboy called Jack Kelly as the hero. He told the story of Jack escaping the Refuge on the back of Teddy Roosevelt's carriage so many times that only Tumbler was listening by that second evening, even if David managed to embellish the tale so masterfully that Jack was beginning to remember it differently—and he'd been there!

The Children's Aid Society sent a couple of their volunteers over to make sure the boys got something to eat and the city went ahead and spared a copper or two to make sure the blizzard didn't give them any ideas. With the winter storm putting New York out of commission, lodging fare was discounted until they could get out and make their sales.

Ordinarily, Jack would take the weather with a grain of salt, maybe sleep past dawn for a change and try to win pennies off of some of the younger boys, hustling them at poker. But not with David stuck in the same bunkroom as him. By the morning of the third day, when Kloppman's wrinkly face appeared to announce that the snow had cleared enough for them to leave, even Jack Kelly was beginning to doubt which Jack Kelly was which.

It took him a few seconds to register Kloppman's reappearance. The two days where the Manhattan newsies were snowed in was probably the longest stretch of time Jack could remember not seeing the old superintendent at his post. When he remembered how desperate he was to talk to Kloppman, he had hopped down from his top bunk and raced over to David—who drew the short straw and was taking his rightful turn in the half-sized, crooked bunk in the back—before Kloppman had successfully woken up Boots yet.

By the time Kloppman made his rounds and headed back to his office to start getting caught up on his ledgers, he found Jack and a very sleepy, very cranky David Jacobs waiting for him at his desk. He took one look at the two boys, figured rightly that something was up, and indicated that they should take a seat.

And then he listened as Jack told him what had happened. About the horse and the ice and the icicle that cracked David on his head. About how David went home as David but came back to the distribution center as Jack. About the bandana, the vest, the rope belt and an affinity for Santa Fe. About the smoking, the drinking, the goo-goo eyes at Sarah Jacobs and how, deep down, Jack and Sarah suspected David was still David but how, so far as Jack had tried, nothing could bring David back.

With a sheepish expression, Jack told him _everything_ except, maybe, Racetrack's plan and the stolen frying pan.

Kloppman listened intently, nodding at the right parts and offering no commentary until Jack, his voice hoarse, his eyes tired and his charming smile uncharacteristically missing, simply said, "Can ya help him, Kloppman? Can ya tell me what to do to make him better?"

Kloppman stroked his chin and peered down his nose so that he was looking at David critically. Then, with an air of authority about him, he said, "So, did ya try hitting him over the head again yet?"

And poor Cowboy realized that he had just run out of options.

* * *

"Did you know that, in Santa Fe, the sun is bigger than here?"

"Sure, Jack_._"

Jack was walking with David. It was pointless trying to sell newspapers when the snow was keeping most of the customers away still, but Jack knew the two boys had to get out of the Newsboys Lodging House before some of the other boys throttled them. After the last few days being cooped up with _two_ Jack Kelly's, he doubted they would care which one they went after, if only to get David to shut up.

He was beginning to wish he'd left David behind. The rate he was going, having Kid Blink or Pie Eater throttle David, they' d be doing _him _a favor.

"Did you know that, in Santa Fe, there are horses for every man?"

"Oh, yeah, so long as you don't court 'em, _Jack_. I think that's gotta be illegal there."

David went on as if he hadn't heard Jack. "Did you know—"

Jack huffed. David Jacobs going on and on about Santa Fe was making Jack want to live in New York for the rest of life and moving out west had always been his dream! "Listen, if you're gonna tell me one more thing about New Mexico, so help me God, I will soak you."

"Ah, so you think you're Spot Conlon now?" David said, giving Jack a short shove in his upper arm. Jack barely budged. "C'mon," he goaded, "I could take ya."

Jack just rolled his eyes and bit his tongue. But that was it. He couldn't take it anymore.

He was going to have to give up.

Jack would have to bring David back to his family and pray Sarah believed him when he told her that he did everything he could do—and, he added guiltily, thinking of the frying pan still hiding out under Race's bunk, a few things he probably shouldn't have. Who knows? Maybe he could convince Sarah to cover her long hair up with a newsboy cap, wear knickers instead of a skirt and call herself Harold. She could sleep in the back bunk and Jack wouldn't have to worry about what David would be up to at night.

Hell, he'd seen worse try to pass themselves off as newsboys... but he doubted Mrs. Jacobs would be too keen on the idea. And it probably wouldn't be so smart having Sarah that close to him and a hundred other boys, either.

But that didn't mean that he was going to be stuck with David any longer. He had to bring him home. It had been four days now and David wasn't getting any better. Maybe David's parents could find a doctor to take a look at his head, or—

That's when Jack saw it. Whether he did it purposely or not, Jack had led the two of them right back to the same street—Mulberry Street—where this all started. Up ahead he saw the same overhang as before, with countless glittering icicles clinging to the edge. They looked prime to fall, courtesy of the sunlight that had melted enough snow to thaw most of the city out.

And Jack wondered how hard he would have to hit the wall to make an icicle drop.

Grabbing a protesting David by the sleeve, Jack positioned him right underneath the least lethal looking icicle. When David tried to ask him what he was doing—"Have ya lost your mind, pal?"—Jack ignored him as he started an assault on the brick wall that had the few scarce passersby scurrying by as if building-violence was catching. No matter, nothing Jack did—not punching, not kicking, not even cursing at it—sent a single icicle crashing down on top of David's head.

There was a good chance Jack _had_ lost his mind because, despite David smirking and laughing at him, he wasn't prepared to give up again. It was like when he went scab during the strike: it was a good idea at the time, just like giving up, but when he thought better about it, he had to work even harder to pretend he never tried to quit. Jack saw a rock, icy and slick, and decided that he would help the icicles on their way.

The toss was beautiful. It had height, a beautiful arc, it just about touched the icicle directly above David... but it didn't.

It missed.

The rock fell back to the ground, right behind David who'd been too busy teasing Jack to notice where the rock had dropped to. The loud crash of the rock against the cobbles was unexpected and he spooked, jumping back in a skittish way as he realized what had happened. With a stormy expression on his face that actually made Jack a little leery—and a little impressed—David made a move forward to confront Jack for throwing stones at him when—

"_Ah!_"

"Oh, shit! Dave, you okay?"

—David's feet slipped on a patch of ice neither boy had seen. His legs gave out from underneath him and, with a thump that shook the street and made one, stunted icicle on the far end of the overhang smash nowhere near them, David hit the ground. Hard. His eyes closed and Jack threw himself down to his knees and David's side, hardly daring to breathe.

He was just about to pass out from lack of oxygen when he heard a muttered groan, realized that David had managed to smack his head again and still not have cracked it like an egg, and allowed himself to use his lungs again. Jack exhaled and, with one shaky finger, poked David in the arm.

David opened his eyes. They dazed but alert.

He was okay.

Jack had one question for David: "Who are ya?"

"What?"

He couldn't help himself. Excited and perhaps a bit wary, Jack picked David up by the front of his shirt and gave him a shake. "Tell me: who the hell do ya think you are?"

"Jack…"

"Damn it," Jack cried, letting go of David, "that didn't work, either! I thought it would've, too!"

"Ow!" David fell backwards against the dirt and groaned so loudly that Jack felt a twinge of guilt in the pit of his belly. To bad he was too busy feeling sorry for himself and his own misfortunes to even care at that point. "Hey, Jack—"

"Hush up, I'm trying to fix ya!"

"Jack, _what_ is going on?"

"I told ya be—wait? What'd ya say?"

"What is going on here? What happened? Why am I… oh, my… on the ground? Why does my… mm… my head hurt so bad?" David's fingers started to reach for the back of his throbbing head when they brushed against the knotted piece of red fabric he was still wearing around his neck. He froze, fingering the material, before he pulled the edge out so that he could what was there. His eyes widened and he just about choked. "Am I wearing _a bandana_?"

For the first time in days, Jack grinned. He really grinned, like his mouth was splitting in two from being stretched so wide. And, while this whole affair made him hate winter all the more, he wouldn't say a word against a bit of ice properly placed.

Because, you see, a patch of ice might've gotten him into this mess to begin with, but, wouldn't you know, it was another patch that got him out.

* * *

_the end._

* * *

"I thought I was _who_?"

"Hey, think of it this way, Davey. You could've been _Race_." Jack found his smile impossible to remove now that David was David again. "And that reminds me." He stuck out his palm. "You owe me two bits. Oh, and a dollar for Skittery's hat. Pay up."

David just cradled his aching head in his hands. Unconsciousness had had to better than _that._

* * *

_no, really._

_fin._

* * *

**End Note**: Well, that was that. I started this fic during one of the worst winters the East Coast has seen in ages and I finish it on Mother's Day in May, when it was 70+ degrees out this weekend in New Jersey. Gotta love it ;)

Thank you to everyone who gave this little humor fic a shot. I had a ball playing with the characterization of Jack - he's still my favorite character and I'm seriously considering giving him a starring role in a multi-chaptered story once I finish Red. He's just too much fun to play with... and poor David. At least he finally got his memory back (even if he lost quite a few brain cells in the process :P)

-_- stress, 05.08.11_


End file.
